PS 

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iifcmg of ffioingtess. 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.^ 




% 



J. Ale* 



ISSACHAE PRICE. 



PHILADELPHIA : 

HENRY B. ASHMEAD, BOOK AND JOB PRINTER, 

GEORGE STREET ABOVE ELEVENTH. 

1856. 



TSaUf 
TF/s?7g^ 



Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1S56, by 

ISSACHAR PRICE, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States in and 
for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 



I RESPECTFULLY DEDICATE THIS SMALL VOLUME OP 

'ttiu 

TO MY MUCH BELOVED AND VENERABLE 
FRIEND AND TUTOR, 

I. P. 



P E E F A C E. 



In the publication of the following verses, I do 
not look for nor expect any literary merit. I have 
never claimed the honor of a genuine poet ; hence, 
it cannot appear that any vain conceit of being a 
genius has induced me to offer this little book to 
my subscribers. Having met with adverses and 
sickness in my business relations, the following 
pages, independent of their first writing, are here 
reproduced in this form, more as a pecuniary than 
a literary affair. Most of the poems were origi- 
nally designed and composed at school, since which 
time, some of them have been revised and published 



VI PREFACE. 

in the Waverly Magazine and the county papers. 
If, however, there is a sentiment expressed which 
may find a resting-place in the bosom of a friend, 
I may know thereby that I have not written in 
vain ) — and, I do hope, that the price of this small 
volume, which may seem a considerable amount, 
shall never be regretted by a subscriber ; while, at 
the same time, I must say that I feel greatly in- 
debted to every one who has aided me in this 
undertaking. 



CONTENTS. 



To Dr. J. Stewart Leech, ----- 9 

The Fading Year, ------ n 

December — Despair, - - - - - -19 

A Dream, -------- 25 

The Blue Bird, - 28 

The Butterfly, ------ 30 

To the Leaves, -------32 

Autumnal Eves, ------ 34 

September is Blowing, ------ 36 

Autumnal Greeting, ----- 39 

Indian Summer, -------41 

The Autumn, ------- 45 

Memory's Volume, ------ 49 

Sadness Banished, ------ 54 

The Azore Islands, ------ 57 

Illinois Prairies, ------ 61 

An April View, -------64 

June, -------- 67 



Vlll CONTENTS. 

The Queen op Summer, - 68 

The Nymphs op Brandywine, - - - - 71 

The Maid in the Valley, 73 

Little Cora, ------- 75 

Songs along Brandywine, - - - - - 77 

Winter, -------- 85 

The Snow Bird, 89 

Snow Feet, ------- 91 

The Grass Harvest, ------ 93 

Lizzie, -------- 95 

Greenwood Dell, -------96 

Morning, -------- 98 

Noon, 101 

The Shamokin, - - - - - - -104 

The Vision, - - - - - - - -107 

The Departure, - - - - - -109 

The Frost King, - - - - - - -111 

The Old School House, ----- 113 

To a Slumbering Maiden, - - - - -115 

The New Bridge, - - - - - -117 

My Heart is in the Forest, -. - - 120 



ffl §r- $♦ Stat fw4 

Come, come, my friend, to yon sequestered 

grove, 
"Where many a bird doth sing its summer 

love, 
And lie outstretched within the shadows cool, 
And learn a wholesome task from Nature's 

hallowed school. 

The page is open under every tree, 
Broad as the heavens unobscured and free ; 
And while the breath of Summer floats along, 
Our souls expanding there may learn some- 
what of song. 

How dear the pleasure of a quiet hour, 
Beside some stream where blooms the wood- 
land flower — 
Unseen by men and unannoyed, alone, 
A devotee at Nature's ever silent throne ! 

Come to that grove along the Brandywine ; 
Come, while the Summer glories in her 
prime ; 
2 



10 TO DR. J. STUART LEECH. 

While every breeze is laden down with tune 
From the soft voices, born of happy May 
and June. 

All day the sand-snipe pipes his little song, 
"While darts the blue kingfisher swift along ; 
And farther up upon the willow tree 
The turtle dove sits cooing mournful melody. 

The cat-bird in the alders warbles sweet, 
The leaves all trembling 'neath his tiny feet ; 
And sweeter yet the brown thrush pours his 

song 
From hazels growing all the pleasant stream 

along. 

Dear is an hour therein of quiet rest, — 
I would our lives might thus be ever blest, 
That all along our pathway to the grave 
Some song might cheer our hearts — some 
tree above us wave. 

But as life is — we may not always dream 
In shadows cool along a fairy stream ; 
But like that stream, rejoicing to the main, 
We must in action be, or else our lives are 
vain. 

July, 1856. 



Jafcinjj fear. 

Clothed in her flowing robes of softest green, 
The emerald year, amid the fleecy shrouds, 

As some lone spirit in a purple scene, 
Descends her realms of amethystine clouds. 

Tearful she bends and plucks the fading 
flowers. 
As one that visits soon to go again ; 
A few more days — a few more transient 
hours — 
And she will leave the green illumined 
plain. 

All that was lovely in the sunny June, 
All that was glowing in the July ray, 

All the sweet music, all the fairy bloom, 
Ere long with Summer, will have passed 
away. 

Sweet matron of the bright and sunny year, 
Thy ruby lips soon we will not behold ; 

Ah ! we shall wet thy path with many a tear 
"When Autumn rules upon his throne of 
gold. 



12 THE FADING YEAR. 

The nights grow cool as days of August 
wane ; 
The earth is sighing with a sad farewell ; 
The cricket chants ; all day the birds com- 
plain 
In plaintive tones within the lonely dell. 

The hills bend lowly in the softened blue, 
Like mighty giants bent in solemn prayer ; 

And all the scenes are truthful to the view, 
As wild September whistles down the air. 

The northwest winds sweep through the 
forest trees ; 

I hear and tremble in the withering breath ; 
Are not the whispers of the mournful breeze 

The dialects of cold remorseless death ? 

The tall corn waves ; the meadow's tufted 
grass 
Lulls sounds prophetic of the gushing 
tear; 
And mellow clouds, like spirits seem to 
pass, 
Tinged with the sunshine of the dying 
year. 



THE FADING YEAR. 13 

Woful and pale September waxes chill ; 
The cool nights lengthen ; and the frost 
subdues 
The giant trees upon the sloping hill, 
And scented flowers that bathed in sum- 
mer dews. 

This is not all ; October steals along ; 

With sober pace he treads the silent 
plain, 
Hushing each soft and vocal voice of song 

Within the circle of his brown domain. 

Around his path he murmurs solemn words ; 
Down through the forest sweeps his fatal 
breath, 
Where every tree and every shrub records 
The summons of that yellow month of 
death. 

The ghostly wind in eddies whirls the 
streams ; 
The lone leaf whispers as it circles down ; 
White thistle witches, like our midnight 
dreams, 
Float 'round the cottage in the dusky 
town. 

2* 



14 THE FADING YEAR. 

The sky turns gold ; the earth, the clouds, 
and all, 
Are burnished with the year's departing 
ray; 
And where the softest, brighest sunbeams 
fall, 
Death, death ! cold death is at his wanton 
play. 

The boastful oak — the monarch of the wood, 
Stands vanquished in his rugged moun- 
tain realm : 

And by the winding brooklet's solitude, 
In fun'ral robes, behold the doleful elm ! 

The beech, carved roughly with a hundred 
names, 

The village record of the young, the gay — 
Mourns, full of lessons, in October's flames, 

Teaching this truth : as I, ye pass away ! 

The weeping willow, pendent truly weeps 
Like one forsaken, burdened to the 
ground, 

"Who, in his wo, upon his bosom beats 
Till all are tearful, sorrowful around, 



. THE FADING YEAR. 15 

In topaz hues the chestnut drops its fruit ; 

The aged walnut, and the shellbark tree 
Shake down their loads — each one a last 
tribute 

To earth distended in her syncope. 

"Walk forth along the Summer meadows 
now; 
The withered clover sighs like one in 
fear; 
And we are taught, on bended knees, to bow 
Where moans the grass in wilted masses 
sear. 

Stray onward! seek the deep and silent 
wood 
Beneath whose shade the Autumn spider 
weaves ; 
How in this scene of purple solitude, 

The heart learns sadness from the falling 
leaves ! 

See, in the west, the sinking sun go down 
Like one in tears for all our beauty gone ! 

Through hazy skies he leaves this world of 
brown ; 
He fades in gloom behind the open lawn. 



16 THE FADING YEAR. 

His golden shafts illume the piles of clouds ; 

Some glow in purple, some in orange 

light, 

And, moving slowly, in huge massy crowds, 

March down along the boundless realms 

of night. 

October blows, and all the air rebounds ; 

Echo reverberates from hill to hill : 
The frosty morning sighs with mournful 
sounds, 

Sighs but awhile, and all again is still. 

The sick grasshopper chirps once more at 
noon, 

Chirps in the meadows, feeble and alone ; 
In vain he sings the merry songs of June — 

His blithest strain is but a fainting tone. 

Across the valley flits the silent crow, 
Flapping his wings, as if in agony, 

Like some lone messenger of pain and wo, 
Clothed in his mournful robes of ebony. 

Perched on a pine tree, how he fills the air 
With doleful warnings of the coming 
dread, 



THE FADING YEAR. 17 

When frosty skies hurl down their cold des- 
pair 
Across the landscape and the paths we 
tread ! 

O sable prophet, prophecy no more ; 

"We know October's sun will bow his 
head, 
And dark November totter up the shore 

Above the russet of his lonely bed ! 

The leaves are shaken from the forest 

bowers ; 
And through the groves November's 

shadows spread, 
And nothing blooms in these dull leaden 

hours, 
No tree, no shrub, no blade, — all, all is 

dead. 

The lake lies waveless in its silent realm ; 
The sea scarce murmurs 'mid the jagged 
rocks ; 
With flapping sails, and loose unmanaged 
helm, 
The sluggish ship rolls down the mer- 
maid's walks. 



18 THE FADING YEAR. 

The sea-gull crouches, and the petrel moans ; 

The sea- weed bleaches in the dying sun ; 
Nor on the strand old ocean longer foams — 

All sound is silenced, and the year is 
done. 

As one diseased, who seems to die, yet lives, 
The earth receives the Indian Summer 
hue, 

Which but a dying, transient splendor gives, 
And all again resumes the gray and blue. 

Afar and near the eye may look, but see 
No signs of Life — no ray of living red ; 

White winter comes along the windy lea ; 
The earth is vanquished and its spirit fled. 



gmmbtr— $*spir* 

Blow, blow, December, cold and lone, 
Who boundest from the northern pole ; 

Howl in mine ear thy winter tone, 
And hurl thy ice around my soul. 

Hath life its joys and sweets for me ? 

Not now ; and vainly I deplore ; 
Where sunshine danced transparently, 

A shadow lies upon our floor. 

Blow, blow, December, ever blow ; 

There is no warmth for thee to chill 
"Within my bosom ; throbbing slow, 

Tis but the heart that thou canst still. 

A shadow lies upon our floor — 
A shadow dark and cold as clay ; 

And, o'er the threshhold comes no more 
The footstep welcome yesterday. 

Blow, blow, December madly blow ; 

I dream no more of happy hours ; 
Let down thy mantle made of snow, 

And cover all the summer bowers. 



20 DECEMBER — DESPAIR. 

The smile — the pleasant smile is gone ; 

A well-known face no more I see ; 
• And shadows like the cloudy dawn, 
Hang dull and leaden over me. 

Blow, blow, December ; thunder now, 
Through frozen lips a requiem ; 

Press thy cold fingers on my brow, 

Blow ; chafe my cheeks ; my vision dim. 

The vacant chair is at the hearth ; 

The cheerful blaze cannot renew 
The pleasant hours of joy and mirth, 

Nor light the lost again to view. 

Blow, blow, December, colder yet ; 

Howl down the mountain's rocky side ; 
Congeal each summer rivulet, 

And flaunt thy snowy banners wide. 

The blinds are closed ; our vacant room 

Now echoes sadly as I tread ; 
And, through the cracks, the cold white 
moon 

Peeps in to see him ; — he is dead. 



DECEMBER — DESPAIR. 21 

Come, come, stay not from me aloof; 

Sweep up the forest and the wold ; 
Howl, dark December, on tlie roof; 

Haste, liaste thy footsteps, stern and cold. 

The grave-yard steals upon my sight; 

And, in a white, sepulchral cloud, 
I see my father through the night, 

Wrapped in his winding sheet and shroud. 

Blow, blow cold month, December, blow ; 

Your darkness cannot hide the gloom 
That mantles o'er me, black with woe ; 

I seek a darker night — the tomb. 



PART II. 

Bleak Boreas seeks the polar shore ; 
His winds of wrath can blight no more. 
The storms are past ; the snowy hills 
Are jubilant with a thousand rills. 
The leaden clouds are swept away 
And bright and rosy is the day. 
The mountain smiles ; the vales are green, 
And sunshine mellows all the scene. 
3 



22 DECEMBER — DESPAIR. 

The landscape laughs , the lambkins play ; 
And tree and shrub again are gay. 
The flowers unfold their petals bright 
To breathe the balm and drink the light. 

Expanding in the sun, holds up 
Each one his little rosy cup. 
The far horizon, bathed in light, 
Throws iris hues upon the night ; 
And soon the mellow morn appears : 
Look, man of sorrow — man of tears — 
Is this not Heaven ? look up, behold 
The canopy of molten gold ! 
Fields, meadows, lawns and forests shine 
And sound with tones of praise divine. 
The feathered orchestra, all day, 
Exults in love for God and May. 
Free, animated, every voice 
Is loud with song and sweet rejoice. 
Death disappears ; to weep is vain ; 
For light and life return again. 



DECEMBER — DESPAIR. 23 

PART III. 

I hear the vocal voice of spring, 

I see the rosy hours return ; 
Sweet, tuneful voices softly sing 

On sloping banks of moss and fern. 

I see the landscape laugh again ; 

I see the mountains dress in green ; 
The flowers are blooming on the plain 

To beautify their blushing queen. 

I hear the ripple of the brook ; 

It leaps in song to kiss the day ; 
It leaves the rock and seeks the nook, 

And gaily murmurs all the way. 

The shrub puts forth the tender leaves ; 

The lambs play in the pleasant sun ; 
The sky is blue, and nothing grieves, 

For joy and beauty now are one. 

Afar and near I hear the praise 
Of bird and kine, of grateful man ; 

E'en budding flowers seem breathing lays 
Along the meadow by the dam. 



24 DECEMBER — DESPAIR. 

The robin on the orchard bough, 
Fills all the valley with his tune, 

"While May hangs garlands on her brow 
To greet the sunny queen of noon. 

Amid this joy all things are bright — 
The sky, the land, the lake and sea ; 

But, in our mansion, day is night, 
My father comes no more to me. 



Resting beneath a spreading oak at noon, 
Drunken with rapture and the joy of song, 

Falling asleep, my dreaming vision sees 
The mighty bards in shadow float along. 

Milton comes steadily stealing up the year 
Amid the revelations of St. John, 

With Eden's story to his bosom prest, 
As our first parents pensive walking on ; 

And Thompson — poet of " the varied Gfod ;" 
The summer smiles, and clasps him by 
the hand ; 
The " rolling year' stoops down and crowns 
his brow, 
Whose song is known within the Better 
Land. 

And Gray moves in the landscape's fading 

scene 
As night comes brooding from the silent 

sea ; 
With her he wends among the grassy tombs, 

In murmur, chanting solemn elegy. 

3# 



26 A DREAM. 

Then Cowper, with his earthward bending 

eyes,* 

Breathes his pure verse along his walks 

alone : 

Sweet Table Talk, and ever charming Task, 

Fling down their dewy, reverential tone. 

And one glides down from Scotland's bonny 
hills, 
From the fresh heather and the blooming 
thorn, 
With highland Mary flitting by his side, 
Far sweeter than in childhood's happy 
morn. 

See ! noble Byron comes in thunder storms, 
By rugged cliffs along the frantic sea — 

The minion child of elemental strife, 

Whose heart, though proud, beat with 
humility. 

There many more familiarly I see 

In peaceful throngs — sweet beings of the 



* Cowper when at school, intimidated by the larger 
boys, feared to raise his eyes above the buckles on his 
shoes. 



A DREAM. 27 

And many come unknown, and go again 
Like sudden flashes, but I know not 
where. 

Bright galaxy of names ! whose tender light 
Shall beam as stars to nations yet unborn, 

For years unnumbered by the hero Time, 
And beckon men up to the fadeless morn. 

But Homer waves his wand above them all ; 

The blind old bard can see the rosy day ; 
Just as I fancy that I hear him speak, 

The dream is gone — the bards have passed 
away. 



UmMih. 



Thou, of the blue wing, singest sadly ; 

Soft as the flute's low notes, I hear 
Thy songs float down the mellow breezes— 

The faint winds of the dying year. 

Hither in early spring thou earnest, 
Tuning the gray and leafless bowers, 

And sangest as an angel psalmist 
Awaiting for the time of flowers. 

But now thy mission-voice is altered ; 

At least mine ear is sadder grown ; 
"What seemed to me as marriage music, 

Sounds like a lonely, fun'ral tone. 

But who loves not thy plaintive singing 
Within the gloom October sheds, 

When summer flowers are pale and withering 
Whose leaves are scattered on their beds. 

In vain I think of merry Spring-time, 
Of every bright and pleasant thing ; 

For through the chambers of my bosom 
Echoes thy mellow sorrowing. 



THE BLUE-BIRD. 29 

Dear spirit of the verdant forest, 

O, animate these dying hours ! 
For thou shalt, with thy glossy bosom, 

Soon sing among the southern flowers. 

But I, in dark November's shadows, 
Shall tremble 'neath the cottage eaves, 

And hear no sound — no thrilling music, 
Except the dirge of falling leaves. 



Whence earnest thou adown the summer air, 
O, wand'ring soul ? thou art no native 
here ; 
For fairy colors, and the rainbow hues 
On thy soft wings appear. 

From what sweet world thou bendest in thy 
flight, 
Dear alien, of a country fair and bland? 
Storms cannot blow among the dewy flow- 
ers, 
In that — thy happy land ! 

0, hast thou chosen this thy dwelling-place, 

Content to flutter but an hour and die ? 
Unfold thy golden wings, sweet thing, — 
away, 

And seek thy native sky ! 

Beware of July, and her sunny smiles ; 

The glow of August passes — soon is gone ; 
And where thou flittest in thy fairy robes, 
The wild winds cometh on. 



THE BUTTERFLY. 31 

Our verdant plains but soil thy painted 
wings, 
Our sweetest roses taint thy sweeter breath, 
Our pearly dews and meadow-scented airs 
Are drugs to thee, and death. 

Stay not a moment 'mid the honeyed bowers, 
Nor loiter where the clover spreads in 
bloom ; 
Haste from the cottage and the harvest fields 
Ere death shall seal thy doom ! 



1 % f rate. 

Stay yet awhile, green leaves, 

Oh, not so soon depart; 
Stay, 'mid the summer wreaths, 

Dear pictures to my heart! 
Upon the swinging bough, 

Stay yet a transient while — 
Lovelier, brighter now 

Seemeth your precious smile. 

Ye will not — cannot stay — 

The hoary frost must fall ; 
The keen, decisive gray 

"Will soon have vanquished all. 
And ye shall fade and die, 

All withered, seared, embrowned ; 
The breeze in solemn sigh, 

Shall bear you to the ground. 

How much of joy is gone 

When ye are pale and dead — 

The heart hath ceased its song, 
The spirit nearly fled ! 



TO THE LEAVES. 33 

Earth, then hath no control 

To lead our footsteps on ; 
The sad and lonely soul 

Aspires to quit the throng. 

Oh, in the by-way glade, 

Upon your mournful bier, 
Among the joys decayed, 

We drop a silent tear ! 
And, — where your graves are made, 

Of late we blithesome trod — 
Within that leafless glade, 

We give ourselves to God. 



Jlutomnal to. 

Come, draw the chairs around the cheerful 
blaze ; 
The cold autumnal eves are here ; 
Gone is the day, and gone the summer 
haze — 
The world is on its bier. 

Come, while the back-log simmers in the 
fire, 

And gloom and darkness brood without; 
"While chill wild winds attune the frosty lyre 

And play around about. 

Come, form the circle round the blazing 
hearth ; 

These are the hours of friendship now ; 
Let loving hearts join in the social mirth 

While loudly creaks the bow — 

The old, old bough, with many a crook and 
twist 

That strikes upon the mossy roof 
Like some bare giant with his boney fist, 

Declaiming stern reproof. 



AUTUMNAL EVES. 35 

Bring in the wine-cup flashing to the brim, 
And drink once more to old "lang syne;" 

Drink, and be merry — raise the olden hymn, 
Fired with the rosy wine ! 

Drink and be merry while the shadows dance 
Like curious phantoms on the wall ; 

The cups we pledge shall much our love 
enhance, 
As spectres rise and fall. 

Drink and be merry while November howls 
"With madness down his cold domain, 

In answer to the hooting of the owls 
Across the gusty plain : 

And ours shall be a night of joy on earth 
As wailing storms around us roar; 

Come, join the circle, ye who love the mirth 
Our fathers knew of yore. 



&tfbnta is §Ifltoing. 

September is blowing 
His trumpet and horn; 

And loud the cold breezes 
Are howling forlorn. 

September is blowing : 
"With his banner and drum 

Triumphing o'er Summer — 
His battle is won. 

His locklets of russet 

Doth he shake on his head; 
And the frost from his beard 

Falls on the flower bed : 

The tiny rose fadeth ; 

And its leaves fall around 
Blown, scattered and driven, 

About the cold ground. 

The old forests shiver 
Like a tottering crown ; 

The frost of September 
Is painting them brown. 



SEPTEMBER IS BLOWING. 37 

The tall oak is shining 
In his vestment of gold — 

The king of the woodland 
Alone in the wold : 



Deserted and vanquished 
Is he drooping and low ; 

For the leaves from his boughs 
October will blow. 



September is blowing; 

He has reddened the sun ; 
The singers of summer 

Are vanquished and dumb. 

The willow trees languish, 
And they mournfully sound ; 

And the dead, withered grass, 
Sleeps cold and profound. 

September is blowing, 

Oh, how stormy and fast! 

The notes of his bugle 

Bring death on the blast. 
4* 



38 SEPTEMBER IS BLOWING. 

He flaunts his cold banners 
Over forest and plain ; 

He greets his brown brother — 
October — with rain. 



^tttanal (grating, 

"We greet thee, cold monarch, 

The king of the year, 
With thy banners of death 

Gleaming yellow and sear ; 
We welcome thy coming, 

Though rigid and chill, 
Thou walkest the valley, 

And crownest the hill ! 

Oh, stern is thy mandate 

When bright flowers obey, 
And pale, in thy breathing, 

They all die away ; 
When they fall to the earth, 

Borne down by the breeze — 
The scented companions 

Of dry, withered leaves ! 

How sadly thy whispers 
Commune with the heart, 

When sitting sequestered 
From mortals apart ! 



40 AUTUMNAL GREETING. 

But sweetly they teach us 
And awake in the soul, 

Thoughts of Elysium — 
Our spirits' bright goal. 

Thou comest in power 

And glory arrayed ; — 
But one there is greater 

Thy mission has made ; 
Whose arm is puissant 

To lay thy crown low, 
And stay thy stern footsteps 

Of desolate woe ! 

We welcome thee, therefore, 

As messenger good, 
Amid our bright flowers 

And tall, shady wood ; 
We welcome thy banners 

And streamers of gold — 
Thou and they be our guests ? 

All solemn and cold. 

Downingtown, September 1st, 1853, 



Into jtamr. 

A mellow beauty sleeps upon the earth 
When Indian Summer bends above the 
scene : 

Where dreamy halos prophesied his birth 
As forests doffed their garb of vestal green. 

A holy stillness rests within the air; 

Lulled by the songs the mournful brook- 
let sings, 
In cadences half-syllabled in prayer, 

As if the breeze had folded up his wings. 

No longer now the shouts of mirth resound, 
Nor merry warblings Heavenward arise ; 
The Summer's gladness bendeth to the 
ground — 
Naught but low moanings murmur 
through the skies. 

Enlarged, behold the crimson sun ascend 
In hazy mist that hangs around the morn. 

It seems in vain his glory he would lend, 
The faded earth to light her year forlorn. 



42 INDIAN SUMMER. 

At midday, mark the languid splendor 
bland — 

Down from the zenith pallid sun-rays fall 
Upon the wide extent of mystic land, 

Illumined as the lamp illumes the pall. 

Across the hill-side, ranged in phalanxed 
rows, 
Sad sentinels, the pale, wan cornshocks 
stand, 
When black and silent perch the solemn 
crows — 
The mimic plumes of a lone warrior band. 

Away along the far horizon's verge, 

Scarce seen, the trees bend low their 
mossy boughs, 

Like woful widows hark'ning to a dirge, 
Or maidens making dark, monastic vows. 

Ah, gay, young souls, as buoyant as the 
spring, 
"With cheeks full blooming as the summer 
rose; 
Ye have not learned the sweets those mo- 
ments bring 
In Indian Summer's heavenly repose. 



INDIAN SUMMER. 43 

Vain revelry, stay your loud laughter now ; 

Disturb not nature in her solemn pray'r ; 
The fated stillness on her dying brow, 

Falls, like the night-dew — truthful — every- 
where. 

E'en here is seldom heard the pheasant's 
drum 

Within the wood below the glassy lake ; 
The quail's bob-white is rarely ever sung 

This sober hour of quietness to break. 

"Who, that hath stood within the mourning 
room, 
As some fond friend turned from the 
earth away, 
Hath not been startled by the chilling gloom, 
Which lingers 'round the cold and marble 
clay? 

That hour before the spirit took its flight, 
With sealed lips, spoke more than man 
can tell ; 

His eyes were closed forever to the light — 
His ears were ringing with the tolling 
knell. 



/ 



44 INDIAN SUMMER. 

This is the hour before the year expires — 
This is the silence of foreboding death ; 

Soon the last embers of the season's fires. 
Will have died out in Indian Summer's 
breath. 



% \}t gtotunm. 

All coldly comes the Autumn brown, 

Over the meadows wood and town ; 

And all the world grows sober now, 

The wild winds sweep his solemn brow. 

The earth assumes a mellow hue, 

And hazy turns the soundless blue ; 

The lofty oaks in purple glow, 

And whisper in the breezes low. 

The hills seem resting in the balm, 

Of Autumn's melancholy calm, 

Like giants sleeping in the morn 

Of some forsaken land forlorn. 

The 'sweet birds flit from bough to bough, 

But they are sad and songless now ; 

A lonely chirp is all I hear, 

Within the fading, dying year— 

A lonely chirp within the dell — ■ 

And this is all — a last farewell. 

The grasses in the meadows mourn, 

And sadly stand the shocks of corn, 

As those forever doomed to go 

Along a weary path of wo ; — 

They stand all vanquished like a host, 



4(3 THE AUTUMN. 

O'erawecl and beaten by a ghost. 

Poor shocks of corn, my heart like you, 

Is cold and lonely with the view. 

~No more I raise my tearful eyes, 

Up to the overspreading skies, 

But walk the fields in calm profound, 

Like age bent lowly to the ground. 

I hear the muffled caw of crows, 

"When Autumn's dreamy zephyr blows ; 

From hill to hill the echo bounds — 

The saddest of all dismal sounds ; 

And through my bosom's dark recess, 

Their dirge, o'erladen with distress, 

Floats sadly, solemnly and slow, 

As sluggish rivers onward go. 

At early dawn of morning gray, 

The realm of frost spreads far away, 

Across the valleys and the hills, 

Along the margins of the rills. 

The crisp blades crackle as you tread 

Upon their frosty-feathered bed ; 

Ah, then I know the summer flowers 

Have dropped their bloom beneath the 

bowers. 
Their painted leaves lie dead and strown, 
By ruthless, winter tempests blown, 



THE AUTUMN. 47 

"Where every foot shall tramp above 

The relics of their summer love. 

Sweet flowers ! how transient every bloom I 

The fairest find the earliest tomb ! 

The sun arises in the east, 

As one in mourning at a feast ; 

In gloom within the west he goes, 

And sinks as one beneath his woes. 

Can this be he, who brightly shone, 

In triumph on his summer throne, 

"Whose rays were dauntless, hot and wild, 

Now feeble as a dying child ? — 

If such God shackles with his ban, 

Ah, what are you, poor mortal man ? 

Leave foolish pride, ye little great, 

While Autumn reads your certain fate 1 

But see the clouds, fold piled on fold, 

Flushed with the sun's departing gold : 

A dying hue the forest fills, 

And sombre rays o'ertop the hills. 

I stand and see the sun go down, 

And all the world is clothed in brown. 

Ah, now the spirit quiet broods 

Within the by-w r ay's solitudes, 

Learns truths from revelations new, 

As falls the frosty laden dew. 



48 THE AUTUMN. 

How peaceful are tlie solemn hours, 
Amid the lone decaying flow'rs ; 
Beneath the trees the spirit breathes 
The sadness of the falling leaves ! 
In Autumn evenings chill and cold 
The soul receives words yet untold. 
Blest be these hours of solemn calm — 
This mournful lecture unto man — 
This softly prophesying gloom, 
Whose lips of death tell of the tomb ! 



Pfmffrg'a §almt 



I open memory's dusty tome 
And see the scenes of old, 

But every page within the book. 
Is dark with murk and mould. 



And one by one I turn the leaves, 
Damp with the dew of years, 

But see the pictures growing dim, 
Till I am blind with tears. 

Upon a mildew' d page, behold 
My boy-hood as a dream ; — 

The mossy village 'neath the trees 
In a valley broad and green ! 



There stands the crumbling school house 
yet— 
A relic of decay ! 
But all the sunny faces then — 
Ah, tell me where are they ? 
5*' 



50 MEMORY'S VOLUME. 

Upon the upland slopes of life 
Some delve with me and toil 

Along our pathway to the grave. 
Amid the loud turmoil. 



But others like the rainbow hues, 

Have faded from the day ; 
Like dandelions from the meads 

Of the sunny month of May. 

Ah, she more fair than any flower, 

Too frail on earth to stand, 
Went, when the rosy hours returned, 

Into the silent land. 

Sweet Cora Downing' s grave was made 
In spring time's happy hours : 

They laid the little blasted bud 
Beneath the op'ning flow'rs. 

The picture of our master old, 

Has faded from this book : 
But I can see his grassy grave 

In yonder silent nook, 



memory's volume. 51 

We joyed beneath, his pleasant smile, 

And trembled 'neath his rod, 
But he, our potentate and lord, 

Has gone to meet his God. 



The orchard, wherein many days, 
We played beneath the shade, 

The woodman's axe has lopped away: 
The trunks are lowly laid. 



And be, who, wben we gathered fruit, 
Came shouting us to scare, 

Worn with his weary watch in life, 
Hath left this world of care. 

Upon another page I see 
The village house of prayer, 

But miss the good, devoted throng 
Who used to enter there. 

Behind the church the marble slabs 

Speak of the long ago, 
And mossy letters half defaced, 

Tell me who lie below. 



■52 memory's volume. 

Behold, upon another leaf, 
The tavern old and gray ! 

But like the pilgrim whom he fed, 
The landlord went away. 



The bell teams come not to the pump. 

Beside the mossy door : 
And noisy drivers, on the porch, 

Are jovial never more. 

I see the ancient market house 

Far down the rural street, 
Where trod the crowd of farmers old, 

With ever busy feet. 

But they have left the market house 

That moulders in decay, 
And gone down to the silent rooms 

"Whose walls are built of clay. 

Here close I up this volume old 
Stamped with departing years: 

I cannot see the pictures now ; 
For I am blind with tears. 



memory's volume. 53 

Yes, close the volume, lay it by — 

The old and Messed book- 
Turn from the vista of the past, 

And toward the future look. 



How sad the hour when I look backward, 

Wandering through the youthful scene, 
Strolling along the flowery valley 

And the dewy meadows green ; 
For, in those hallowed years departed, 

Thither do I tread alone, 
Where hushed are childhood's angel voices, 

Dumb and silent ev'ry tone ! 

The gray old school-house stands deserted, 

Down amid the valley green, 
Where thorny brambles choke the play- 
ground, 

Cruel thistles grow between : 
There loving playmates no more greet me 

With their joyful laugh at noon; 
How varied now is each one's pathway — 

Some are in the silent tomb. 

And never more bright heavenly faces 

Glow beneath the shady trees, 
Whose verdant boughs, with blossoms laden 

Shook their fragrance on the breeze. 



SADNESS BANISHED. 55 

But hear ! the summer-birds are singing — 

As of old they sing again ! 
That dulcet music through my bosom 

Breathes the melody of pain. 

Each tuneful sparrow in the hedges 

Chirps a melancholy lay 
Around the school-house, now in ruins, 

For its inmates passed away ; 
So walk I onward sadly, lonely * 

In the shadow of despair, 
As all the beauty darkens round me 

In the even's dusky air. 

But comes a spirit floating near me — 

Cora's disembodied form; 
A beautiful expanded angel, 

Fairer than in youthful morn ! 
She — lovely seraph — soothes this sorrow, 

Calls me to her sunny bourn, — 
That pure and lofty golden mansion 

Where there is no heart forlorn. 

And here, amid the misty, vanished 
Years that long have rolled away, 

Among the saddest teaching relics 
Mould'ring down in dull decay 



56 SADNESS BANISHED. 

She pours the balm into my bosom, 

Into ev'ry dark recess, 
The light and love of her dominion ; — 

Sadness banished : blessedness ! 



J^Oftt Prate, 

Far, far away in the sea, 

In the deep, unfathomed sea, 
In the briny, broad Atlantic, 
Rise the fairy, high, gigantic 
Azores in the sea. 

Like a dark dream in the sea, 
In the deep, unsounded sea, 
Are those islands in the gloom 
From the mast-head and jibboom, 
When first seen at sea — 

Like a bright dream in the sea, 

In the deep eternal sea, 
As in sleep we often dream, 
Seemed they in the morning beam 

Near the ship at sea. 

Flores, Corvo, in the sea, — 
Two twin islands in the sea 

Smile with love upon each other, 

As a sister and a brother, 
In the sparkling sea. 
6 



58 AZORE ISLANDS. 

A volcano in the sea. 

In the deep untrammeled sea, 
Is huge Pico, black and high, 
Like a giant in the sky, 

Rising from the sea. 

Fairy Fayal, in the sea, 

In the deep majestic sea, 
How your brother, Pico, mocks 
All the grandeur of your rocks 
In the flashing; sea. 

But thy meadows in the sea 

Laugh at his sublimity, 
And his jagged vertebrae, 
And his stony brow at sea — - 
Cragged in the sea. 

"While thy bosom in the sea, 
Pair and balmy in the sea, 
Bears the golden grain the vine 
Pills the vintage full of wine 
Prom his crags at sea. 

Prom Fayal and from Pico, 
Eastward in the heaving sea, 



AZORE ISLANDS. 59 

Beliold St. George loom long and grand- 
Three leagues of sombre, rolling land 
Laving in the sea. 

But south eastward in the sea, 

Sits the father in the sea — 
Old St. Michael ! there is he 
With the sea-gull on his knee, 

'Mid his progeny. 

Many vessels in the sea 

Tossed and driven in the sea, 
Find a haven here at sea, 
And the swarthy Portugue 

Shows humanity. 

Dark-eyed maidens in the sea, 

Yet your tresses I can see 
Glossy on your bosoms bare, 
Ruffled by the summer air 

In the distant sea. 

Peasant yeoman in the sea, 

Peasant maidens in the sea, 
I shall keep your memory 
Sacred here across the sea ; 

And my prayer shall be, — 



60 AZORE ISLANDS. 

Bless the humble Portugue 
Far, far away in the sea, 
In the briny, broad Atlantic, 
On the fairy, high, gigantic 
Azores in the sea. 



Hallowed — spreading out in glory*, 

See the prairies broad and green. 
Glowing in the waving splendor 

Of the verdant Summer Queen ; 
Reaching from the flashing water 

Of the mimic ocean lakes, 
Laughing to Ohio river, 

Whose wide bosom, heaving, shakes ! 

Prom the turbid Mississippi 

To the Indiana line, 
Seas of green — the Eden gardens 

Spread eternally sublime, 
By the fountains irrigated 

Of Vermilion, Mackinaw, 
And the giant Illinois 

Roaring in his own eclat. 



a & 



Throwing up their golden splendor 
On the scudding clouds of morn ; 

Rustling in their rich productions — 
Boundless fields of wheat and corn ; 
6* 



62 ILLINOIS PRAIRIES. 

Painting all the blue horizon, 

When the sinking sun goes down, 

With the glowing iris color, 
Fading into mellow brown. 

Lazy, stretching up his pinions, 

Careless, heedless of your tread, 
In your random path the plover 

Scarcely turns his striped head, 
From the tufted grassy patches, 

Prairie chickens, startled sail"; 
Smaller and more slyly hidden 

Pipes the inoffensive quail. 

"Where the lord of cattle bellowed,, 

Stamping, master of the plain, 
Looking on the early settler 

With defiance but in vain, 
Polls the fiery steed, in thunder, 

Paging, mad with heat and steam, 
Down the bison's beaten pathway : — - 

Like an eagle hear him scream. 



See ascend the rounded prairie 
Smoke in fleecy masses hurled, 



ILLINOIS PRAIRIES. 63 



Like the vapor of a furnace 
Fuming from another world ! 

In the distance soft and dreamy, 
See a line of wood appear 

Like a silken cord dividing 
The apartment of the year. 



Behold the pioneer wagons, 

Slowly winding farther west, 
Vanish down the grassy prairie 

As the white clouds from its breast- 
Pilgrims to the wilds untrodden 

Minnesota, Oregon, 
And the thickets of Nebraska, 

Basking in the setting sun. 

Sadly comes the vanquished red man 

Seeking his forefather's grounds ; 
But the rude plow's devastation 

Levels all his graves and mounds. 
Poor, dejected, roving Indian, 

Dead in hope, yet shed a tear, 
Where thou standest with affection, 

Thine in peace may slumber near ! 



Standing amid the April flow'rs 
And looking down the chilly year, 

I see the cold retreating hours 
Resume the helmet and the spear. 

And from the shadows dim and dark 

Of hoary headed January, 
I hear the chieftains grim and stark 

Saluting those of February. 

Shall we be beaten by a maid 

With sceptre but a wreath of flowers— 
A trivial nymph of nook and glade— 

A sunny child of shady bowers ? 

Nay ! to the contest, warriors now ! 

The battle yet may not be lost : 
The maid of fair and sunny brow 

Shall quake beneath the horrid frost ! 

I see them marsh'ling in the field 
And, phalanxed, stealing up the year 

With many a brightly burnished shield, 
And many a cold icicle spear. 



AN APRIL VIEW. t 

They have no drum — no thrilling strain 

To animate the soul within, 
But tread the silent hill and plain 

Like 'Pluto on his march of sin. 

Lo ! in the vanquished realm of March 
They over all her meadows pass, 

And underneath her sunny arch 

They trample down the springing grass 

I tremble ! they are drawing near ; 

The maiden, Spring, is deadly pale ; 
The boding sky is dark and drear — 

Ah, now they tread her flowery vale ! 

The chieftain's voice is heard again ; 

On warriors to the work of death ! 
Ours be the day ! and not in vain 

Let sword be struck with every breath. 

The contest rages — blast on blast 

Sweeps madly howling dread amain ; 

The snow in clouds descending fast 
Lies shrouding many a hill and plain. 

While whirlwinds tw T ist the mighty trees 
And toss their boughs to earth below, 



66 AN APRIL VIEW. 

The night's cold hours of horror freeze 
The tender scions in the snow. 

Rejoice ! the battle now is o'er, 

And Spring, the mistress, wins the day ; 
The vanquished monarch shall no more 

Molest the dancing Queen of May. 

Come, maidens, join the jovial throng, 
The land is blooming, spread with flow'rs 

5To voice shall drown the pleasant song 
Of bonny Spring's illumined hours. 

April, 1854. 



See where she comes — the agile queen— 
"With glowing face and voice of tune, 

Adorned in soft, transparent green — 
The lovely, bonny maiden, June. 

Where winds the pleasant Brandywine, 
The maiden dips her rosy cup, 

And drinks, as Bacchus of his wine, 
With eager lip, sup after sup. 

I see her o'er Hardscrabble float, 

Twining the sweetest summer wreaths. 

While greets her many a mellow throat, 
Beneath the thickly clustered leaves. 

And up the valley green and broad 
She cometh like an angel fair — 

A special messenger of God — 
With jetty eyes and glossy hair. 

Let us go forth and meet the queen — • 
The youngest child of summer hours— 

Amid the bright resplendent scene, 
Among the charmed scented flow'rs. 



%\t (§wm of SnmratL 

She comes in stately pride and beauty, 
Crowned with wreaths of scented flow'rs, 

Like a gentle maid on duty, 

Twining all the land with bow'rs. 

Behold her at the peep of morning, 
With her rosy cheeks in bloom ; 

With her smiles the skies adorning, 
Deep'ning into radiant noon. 

See the far horizon gleaming 

"With the laughter of her face, 
"While her sunny smiles are streaming 

Through the upper halls of space. 

Now her eyes are eastward bending, 

Like a winged lark at night, 
To his meadow green descending, 

With a heart full of delight. 

Now she windeth down the mountain, 

By the river's verdant brink ; 
Now she stand eth by the fountain 

Where the herds in quiet drink. 



THE QUEEN OF SUMMER. 63 

Now she walketh through the valley, 

By the deep sequestered dell ; 
Now her feet, in silence, dally 

By the reaper's dripping well. 

Up the w r elkin she hath wended, 
To the seat of slumbering noon ; 

Half the day of labor ended, 

Shady groves- she gives — a boon. 

From the coueh of noon she bendeth 

Toward her holy place of rest, 
Where, in spirit-being, endeth 

All our sorrow in the west. 

Now the shades of eve are falling 
Thickly round the Summer Queen, 

"While her muffled voice is calling 
Mortals to the sun-set scene. 

Behold as in the dawn of morn, 
The Queen of Summer stately yet, 

Gliding down the dreamy bourn — 
With the orb of glory set ! 

Thus the Queen of Summer teacheth — 
All of brightness sinks to rest 

7 



70 QUEEN OF SUMMER. 

In the far off realms, that reacheth 
Deep and pleasant as the west. 

Nothing evil, dark unholy 

Can ascend and trace the skies ; 

None but footsteps pure and lowly 
Enter in at Paradise. 



%\t $&m$* at ^mtytoiw. 

A train of fairy nymphs one day 

Passed by, and bore my friend away ; 

They took him in their arms divine, 

Along the singing Brandy wine. 

Each lip, each cheek was like the rose, 

That in the sweetest garden blows ; 

Each orb, each tender beaming eye, 

"Was bnt the mirror of the sky, 

As they loved him — loved him well — 

More than pen or tongue can tell ; 

And in their pleasant sylvan mood, 

They sought friend Hoope's " solitude" 

Thither no voice of strife may come, 

But songs of birds, and lulling hum 

Of tireless, busy, honey bees, 

Among the early flowers and trees. 

One tender fay of angel look 

Brought him white pebbles from the brook, 

And one that loved him very well, 

Brought him the purple muscle shell ; 

But one — that grew beside the rill, 

Plucked him the modest daffodil. 

While some would pleasing stories tell. 



72 THE NYMPHS OF BRANDYWINE. 

Others would fetch the bright blue bell, 

Cull butter- cups and dandelions, 

And hunt the tender springing scions ; 

They brought him these — a tribute meet 

For one so beautiful and sweet, 

When they had wreathed his brow with 

flow'rs 
Dripping with dew of pearly show'rs, 
They took him up, on pinions free, 
And bore my minion back to me. 

May, 1S54. 



%\t pa in % Mlti. 

Aclown a vernal valley 

A pensive maiden strayed ; 

I watched her footsteps dally 
Beneath the hazel shade. 

A thin robe waved around her, 
A rose was on her breast, 

With her little lily hands 
Across her bosom prest. 

At length she kneeled in prayer 
Amid the waving grass ; 

And I could hear her accents 
Upon the zephyr pass. 

Ah ! she was one forsaken — ■ 
Astray from cottage home — - 

A tearful little maiden, 
Dejected and alone ! 

He cruelly had left her — 

Her lover proud and high ; 
For I could hear her whisper 

His name with sob and sigh. 

7* 



74 THE MAID IN THE VALLEY. 

At last I caught her aspect 
Distorted — paled with wo ; 

My reckless heart and haughty 
Beat tenderly and low. 

I lightly stole upon her 

As she knelt down in pray'r, 

And bent my knee beside her — 
She knew not I was there. 

And when she sighed : false hearted ! 

I said : it cannot be ; 
Thy lover is beside thee, 

My love, -and I am he J 

No more shall we be parted ; 

One path shall yet be ours 
"Within this fragrant valley^ 

Amid its scented flow'rs. 



pile ta. 

They laid down little Cora — where ? 
Upon a downy bed 
To rest her aching head ! 
No, not there. 

They laid down little Cora — where ? 
Upon a bed of flowers 
In Summer's sunny hours ! 
No, not there. 

They laid down little Cora — where ? 
Beneath the shady trees 
Lulled by the hum of bees ! 
No, not there. 

They laid her softly down to rest 

In that unwakeful bed, 
Prom whence she never, never more 

Should raise her little head. 

'They laid her in the silent grave 

To slumber and to rest, 
Beneath the cold, cold sod that lies 

Upon her icy breast. 



76 LITTLE CORA. 

They laid lier there when early Spring 
Made glad the sunny hours ; 

Though nipt the fairest one of all 
The sweet unfolding flowers. 

Birds sang their gayest roundelays 

Above her lifeless form, 
As if to call her spirit back 

From God's eternal morn. 

And yet they warble by her bed 

In soft melodious strain, 
Calling the one who loved them well ; 

But she comes not again. 



Sflnp along §rafrgtorat 

NO. I. 

Come, let us stray by Brandywine, 
Beneath the beech and sycamore, 

The ripples sing down mossy beds 
And whisper, love, along the shore- 

The moon shines brightly from her throne ; 

Her silver rays are on the stream ; 
And, dressed in beauty through the meads, 

The Even walks as in a dream. 

Come, while the breath of July flows 
Up from the fields of dewy flow'rs ; 

And all the splendor of the year, 
Seems shining in the mellow hours. 



Come, Mary, I will weave for thee 
A song along the Brandywine, 

Pure as the dew that bathes the buds 
Unfolding in the summer time. 



78 SONGS ALONG BRANDYWINE. 



NO. II. 

Soft is Italian clime — 

Sweet are its streams ; 
Softer where Brandywine 

Sings in its dreams. 

Ve have no Tuscan maids 

Dusky and brown ; 
But we have pleasant shades. 

Close to the town. 

Thither our ladies walk 

Fairy and fine ; 
Sweet is their honey talk 

By Brandywine. 

Give me our quiet streams, 

And our fair maids, 
When in the soft summer beams 

Cool in the shades. 



SONGS ALONG BRAKBYWINE. 79 



NO. Ill* 

Here I tread and silent muse 
In the twilight and the dews — * 
See the shadows dimly spread 
Like the phantoms of the dead, 
While the robin's chirping dies 
In the darkness of the skies: 
Muse and think and ponder o'er 
Sunny days that are no more ; 
Then the thrillings through my heart 
From the light of childhood start- 
When a truant wild I ran 
By the flow'ry sprinkled dam; 
When I loved these shadows cool 
Better than a master's rule* 
Pleasant were those sunny hours 
'Mid the meadow's scented flow'rs ; 
But I feared, and wandered home, 
Skulking like a guilty drone, 
Knowing well the fatal rule 
For a truant from his school. 
Pleasant days and sorrow's hours, 
Still I meet you in these bowers ; 
And I think the thoughts again 



80 SONGS ALONG BRANDYWINE. 

Ere the soul had yet a stain ; 
"When the bosom warm and true. 
Blended with the heav'nly blue, 
"What is childhood ? Oh, a light 
Shining on our future night, 
"When the clouds of manhood swim ! 
Making our horizon dim ! 
But the shadows darkly spread 
Like the phantoms of the dead. 



SONGS ALONG BRANDYWINE. 81 

NO. IV. 

Sweet stream, thy music calls me forth 

In even's dewy time ; 
I come to learn thy mellow psalms 

Oh, singing Brandywine. 

Thon bringest down the balm of flowers 
From meadows bright and green, 

"Where flashing wings of joyous birds 
In sunny colors gleam. 

Thou bringest on thy silver waves 

The murmur of the groves, 
Where summer birds sing thrillingly 

Their sweet celestial loves. 

Thou barest on those dulcet airs 

And every pleasant voice, 
Till e'en this dull, cold heart of mine 

Leaps up at thy rejoice. 



82 SONGS ALONG BRANDYWINE. 

NO. V. 

Oh, vocal stream, oh, charming brook, 

I read thy rhymes as from a book — 

As from a book I read the rhyme 

Of some sweet poet's thoughts divine. 

But softer do thy murmurs flow 

Than any poet's verse I know ; 

And more thou pourest through my breast 

The music lulling me to rest. 

Here I have volumes in my hand, 

But I shall lay them in the sand ; 

Their rhymes are dull when thine I hear 

Fall softly in my listening ear ; 

They only through the heart may roll ; 

But thine trills lovely in the soul. 



SONGS ALONG BRANDYWINE. 83 

NO. VI. 

Beneath thy silver waves, behold 
Another world like this of ours ; 

I deem I hear the singing birds, 
And see the bright inverted flow'rs. 

The sky spreads lovely far beneath, 
Dream-like except a ripple mars ; 

And then I see the fairy forms, 
The little, dancing, silver stars. 

And, from the upturned hills of green, 
Like Beauty kissing pleasant June ; 

Peeping at first as one afraid, 
I see the pale, aquatic moon. 

Oh, fairy sight, oh novel scene, 
Ye giveth one exquisite bliss — 

Not many know, not many feel 
Except beside a stream like this ! 



84 SONGS ALONG BRANDYWINE. 

NO. VII. 

Here many strayed, who stray no more ; 

Here many came and played with me, 
Upon this green and grassy shore, 

Beneath the spreading willow tree. 

Here many gamboled blithe and gay, 

Who died in youth's bright, sunny morn; 

"When memory wanders back that way 
My aching heart is left forlorn. 

!Nbt all are dead ; yet some remain, 

Whose path if you should ask me where, 

I could not tell ; and it were vain 
To hope their light again to share. 

But tuneful voices now are hushed ; 

And all the past is like a dream ; 
My heart with loneliness were crushed 

But for the music of the stream. 

And this I hear yet as in youth — 

The low, the plaintive murmured tune, 

But now it speaks a sterner truth 

To manhood's heart ; soon — dying soon. 



WMtx. 

"When "Winter o'er the midnight skies, 

Extends his cold domain, 
The Polar Star, in brightness, vies 

The twinkling of the Wain. 

And huge Orion, proudest shines, 

Of all the starry host ; — 
With Taurus, in the blue confines, 

The battle is his boast. 

The low'ring cloud soon intervenes ; 

And driving hail and rain 
Come rattling from inclement wings, 

Along the misty plain. 

The morn arises bleak and gray, 

O'er vale and forest vast; 
And boisterous all the gloomy day, 

In whirlwinds sweeps the blast. 

The only songs the traveller cheer, 

Who weary plods his way, 
The snow-birds nestling cold and drear, 

Make, 'round the ricks of hay. 

8* 



86 WINTER. 

Then seasons mild have left the earth— 
The Spring and Summer day — 

The yellow cornucopsean birth, 
Successive fled away. 

And, o'er the autumn mellow, brown, 

Dejected and subdued, 
The howling winter thunders down, 

His rigid solitude. 

Boreas, whistling from the north, 

Embattling fiercely bold, 
While, rushing through the forest forth, 

He waxes chill and cold. 

And, when around the cottage walls, 

So pitiless he howls, 
The shivering hound his master calls, 

"With wistful whines and growls. 

The frost descends — nor storm abates ; 

While maddened tempests blow, 
Unkindly ermined winter shakes 

His locks of ice and snow. 

The tinkling of the merry bells, 
Make stirring music now ; 



WINTER. 87 

In buoyant hearts that music swells. 
Beneath the winter's brow. 

The sleigh glides swift— the charger bites 

Upon the icy bit ; 
The clatter of his hoofs, delights 

Those hearts which love hath lit. 

And down the way on glist'ning snow, 

In furs from wind and storm, 
The maidens and their lovers go, 

Together nestled, warm. 

How happ'ly beat ten thousand hearts 

In mansions large and grand, 
"Where comfort all her joys, imparts 

At Fortune's gay command. 

Around the festive board in glee, 

Are glowing faces bright — 
Ah ! what is that to poverty 

In "Winter's cheerless night. 

Oh, wealth, have pity now ! nor scorn 

The needy poor, who wait, 
In tattered robes, in snow and storm, 

Half frozen at your gate. 



88 WINTER. 

How cheering when misfortunes gaunt, 

Depress us to the clay, 
To find kind sympathy, our want, 

Hath nobly come to stay ! 

" The bread upon the waters cast 

Returns in many days," 
And him who shares his morsel last 

The great Redeemer pays. 



%\t Swto Sir*. 

"Why comest thou, dear minion, when the 
winter 
Lays desolate the fields of summer flow'rs 
Do stormy days to thee prove more delicious 
Than Summer's sunny hours ? 

On broken reeds I hear thee in the mea- 
dows, 
And in the bow'rs deserted, soft and low 
Thy music trembles every stormy morning, 
Amid the falling snow. 

When pathless drifts are piled along the 
highway, 
When every hill is white, and vale and 
moor ; 
Thou comest blithely, making little foot- 
prints 
Around the cottage door. 

Though Boreas harshly from the northward 
whistles, 
And huge, black clouds ride on the 
stormy air, 



90 THE SNOW BIRD. 

Thy songs remind me of the blue-bird's 
singing 
"When skies are mild and fair. 

The ruder winds weigh not upon thy pinions ; 

But thou, triumphing over every storm, 
F oldest thy wing, after thy day's rejoicing, 
To sing again at morn. 

The darkest day, when woods are bare and 
lifeless, 
And every herb is bound with icy chains, 
"When winds blow hollow up the snowy 
valleys, 

Thou sing'st thy sweetest strains. 

"Why wilt thou go while rosy spring is 
coming ? 
Stay, stay and sing as in the winter day ; 
When flow'rs are blooming and the glad 
bees humming, 

Fly not from us away ! 



Hark, hark, what sounds my hearing greet — 
Soft, feath'ry footsteps in the street ! 
Far over woods, borne on the breeze, 
I hear them tramp among the trees — 
Tramp, tramp all day with measured tread 
Amid the forests cold and dead : 
And, over meadows dumb and chill, 
And on the bleak and vanquished hill, 
They come, they come — soft little feet — 
And tramp before me in the street ! 

Around the cottage and the barn 

The small, white feet fall soft and low ; 

And they walk down the rural farm — 
White, feath'ry feet, embalmed in snow ! 

The big white snow has little feet, 
And they slide down the cloudy air, 

Down, down among the rain and sleet — 
What lady's feet are half so fair ? 
Cold little feet, cold little feet — 
See how they dance along the street ! 
And, while half slumb'ring, I can hear 
Them tramping, by my window, near ; 



92 SNOW-FEET. 

Till, faint with travel, they complain 
And rest against my window pane. 
And 'round the eaves they gather fast 
And still they come on ev'ry blast. 
White little feet ! they come, they come, 
When all the world is cold and numb. 

Whence come they to this cold abode 
Adown their bleak aerial road ? 
But ask not this ; — they come — they come 
When all the world is cold and numb ! 



%\t tos Jartost 

Hark ! amid the meadows 

The red winged starlings sing ; 

Shout the swarthy mowers ; 
Their scythes vibrating ring ; 

Hie down along the waving grass 
And see them harvesting ! 

Strong arms bare and brawny 
Toss up the scented hay : 

Hear the joyous laughter 
Of merry maidens gay, 

With icy water in the cans 
Fresh as the fountain spray ! 

From the rural cottage 

Across the clover bloom 
For the weary rustics 

Sounds the horn at noon ; 
They eat their harvest meal beneath 

A willow's spreading gloom. 

To the open barn doors 
'Neath the torrid ray, 
See the jolly teamster 



94 THE GRASS HARVEST. 

Bring up a load of hay ; 
On which a bonny maiden sits 
Brown as an autumn day ! 

Bless the noble farmer, 
Each honest lad and lass 

Down the sunny meadows 

Among the withered grass ; — 

Blessed be each toiling harvester 
In all that comes to pass ! 



Poor Lizzie died — they placed the sod 

Upon her quiet breast ; 
And she is slumb'ring calmly now 

In death's eternal rest : 

She closed her eyes as womanhood 

Bent o'er her azure morn — 
The last farewell died on her lips, 

And we are left forlorn : 

She withered in the summer time : 

Beneath the rosy bow'rs, 
Upon her breast she crossed her arms, 

And died amid the flow'rs : 

While all the sky was bright and blue, 

And earth was full of tune, 
The ebon hearse bore Lizzie down 

Unto the silent tomb. 

Oh, bright-eyed, laughing child, the loss 
Is more than thou canst know ; 

But I can feel the sting of death — 
The pang of grief and wo. 



Once more I come to the cot loved well- 
The mossy cot of Greenwood Dell ; 
Ah, many a path. I've wandered through 
Since last I bade its walls adieu. 

But all the scenes I know full well, 
None, none I love as Greenwood Dell ; 
For here are noble souls and kind, 
And genial warmth of heart and mind. 

Sweet spot is this ! Oh, I deplore 
"When hence I turn to come no more ; 
And sadly shall I onward go 
To stranger lands with heart of wo. 

Oft will I turn with tearful eyes 
Toward these dearly cherished skies, 
"Where love and friendship firmly dwell 
In the quiet cot of Greenwood Dell. 

And I shall often deem I hear 
The merry birds, with voices clear, 
Sing, in the calm Spring morning fine, 
Along the vocal Brandywine. 



GREENWOOD DELL. 97 

And every whisper of the breeze 

And pleasant rustle of the trees 

I oft will hear when far I dwell 

From this dear spot, sweet Greenwood Dell. 

And I shall see, in pleasant dreams — 
The early flowers along the streams — 
The flowers, that I have loved so well, 
That deck the meads of Greenwood Dell. 

And I will see the good old man, 
Grown gray in Education's van ; 
For memory shall lend her light, 
Quenched only by Death's endless night. 

"When grief and woe my bosom swell 
Ah, I shall sigh for Greenwood Dell. 



9* 



The morning is dawning ; 

A glimmering ray 
Points out to our vision 

The brow of the day. 

Away up the welkin 
The bars of the light 

Are streaking with silver 
The skirts of the night. 

The red sun is rising 
And inland is rolled 

O'er the slumb'ring valley 
A halo of gold. 

The mantle of darkness 
Is folded and gone ; 

The earth shines in beauty 
And revels in song. 

All things are translucent 
In this joyous hour ; 

The rainbow is glowing, 
And blooming the bow'r. 



MORNING. 99 

Behold the bright streamlet 

In vapor upborn 
By th' water-wheel flashing, 

Is kissing the morn. 

Each feathery cherub 

Is singing in tune 
With all the soft voices 

Of May and of June. 

Above the dim mountains, 

High, cragged and gray, 
The mist of the fountains 

Is rolling away. 

The broad shining river 

Rejoicing and free, 
Untrammeled, resistless, 

Winds down to the sea. 

The crystalline brooklet 

Gay, jubilant, flinging 
Its spray from the crags, 

To the river is singing. 

The earth is a mirror, 
And the blue sky above, 



100 MORNING. 

In which are reflected 
God's mercy and love. 

All bright things in common 
To man he hath given, 

But breathe of the coming 
Of brighter in Heaven. 



jtoofc 

See across the spreading plain 
How the noon is standing still ; 

And asleep beneath the shade 
She reclines upon the hill. 

Hot a sound is rising up, 
Not a mellow noted tune ; 

But a silence fills the air 

In the sickened hour of noon. 

All is solemn in the heat, 

All is pending breathless now ; 

Not a voice is heard abroad, 
Scarce a bee upon the bough. 

Little birds have hushed their songs ; 

Drooping sit beneath the leaves, 
Hidden from the heat of day ; 

Nor the spider longer weaves. 

Thirsty herds are in the brooks, 
And the folds beneath the shade ; 

Dumb the pleasant singing thrush, 
And the catbird in the glade. 



102 NOON. 

Slow along the pensive stream 
Murmurs through the willow grove ; 

There the turtle coos no more 
Her complaining notes of love. 

Dead the hour as here I lie 

In a doze yet half awake, 
In the shadow of a tree 

Dreaming of the drowsy lake — 

Of the distant hills and dim, 
Mantled in a hazy gloom — 

Dreaming they are giants chained, 
In a solemn prison room — 

Of the gentle sloping vale 

Filled with slumber where no sound, 
Scarce a whisper in the grass, 

Rises from the heated ground. 

Languid, withered flowers bend 

In the pressure of repose, 
Like a little sorry maid, 

'Neath a weary weight of woes. 

Now I wake amid the noon 
Resting on the shaded grass ; 



NOON. 103 

See the white clouds through the blue, 
Rolling in a lazy mass. 

All is silence ; not a sound — 
Not the faintest murmur tune, 

In the deep enchanted realm 
Of the sultry hour of noon. 



On these fair hills the Shamokin once trod 
Exultant lord of all the country round, 

Beneath the ancient trees he worshiped God, 
And knew no other master of the ground. 

"With spirit free at early dawn he came 
And plied his oar within the Brandy wine ; 

Year after year he hunted, fished the same, 
Oh, happy then the Indian's sunny clime ! 



He wooed the maiden of his love and youth, 

And 'neath the oak he drew her to his 

breast ; 

Into her ear he breathed the words of truth 

And spoke of peace — their future years of 

rest. 

And she would smile, the maiden of the 
wood, 

Her deep orbs glowing like the very skies ; 
To her a Heav'n was in that solitude, 

For all was sacred in her lovely eyes. 



THE SHAMOKIN. 105 

But years since then have passed and gone ; 
no more 
The Shamokin is seen among the hills ; 
Sometimes a bone is found along the shore 
Of these pure crystal mountain cradled 
streams ; 

Save this there is no sign of all that race 

Of red skinned men forever passed away ; 
From far the white man came and took his 
place 
And claimed the ground wherein his bones 
decay. 

"When autumn spreads his sombre hues 

around, 

And the low hills are in their yellow dress, 

Methinks a footstep tramps the solemn 

ground 

Of some lone Indian in his sore distress. 

But 'tis a dream, a lonely, lonely dream, 
Born of the fancy like a breath of air ; 
The Shamokin no more will tread this scene, 
His native land so fraught with fell de- 
spair. 
10 



106 THE SHAMOKIN. 

Where leaped the wild deer, thunders now 

the forge ; 

The echo sounds from hill to hill again ; 

The black smoke, from the grand romantic 

gorge, 

Rolls down the air along the valley's plain. 

And where the wigwam stood, the farmer's 

barn 
Peeps up amid the few remaining trees, 
Filled with the treasure of the cultured 

farm — 
Such now the sight this generation sees. 



I see thee, child, dear budding flower, 

Rejoicing in the spring — 
"What time the merry throated birds 

In sweet orchestras sing. 

Up through the verdant meadows dance 

Thy little feet in glee ; 
While Heav'n is in thy azure eyes, 

Thy mother's face I see. 

Each lineament I fondly trace — 
Oh, may thy mother's bloom 

Be seen again in colors bright 
Triumphing o'er the tomb ! 

Each season dies ; year follows year; 

Yet still I see the flower, 
More dear to me than all the rest, 

Expand through storm or shower. 

Anon I see thee, rosy fair 

As summer's blushing morn ; 

Though one has left my bleeding heart, 
Why should I feel forlorn ? 



108 THE VISION. 

Behold, in thee, my youthful love ! 

Death's arrows hit in vain ; 
All, all the summer's faded flowers 

"Will grow and bloom again. 



Wilt $*prttttt. 

He heard an angel calling him 

Into a brighter sphere ; 
He laid his earthly cares aside 

Without a sigh or tear. 

But I was sorrowful and mourned 

To see him go away, 
And wishfully I called him back : 

< ; Oh Father, Father, stay I" 

How lonely will our mansion be, 

How vacant every room ! 
The shadow, falling at the door, 

A never fading gloom ! 

But he had folded up his hands 

And lain his cares away ; 
No scalding tears, no fond embrace, 

Had charms to make him stay. 

Forsaken homestead ! never more 

His footsteps shall I hear ; 
The threshhold knows a stranger's foot, 

My cheeks a dryless tear. 
10* 



110 THE DEPARTURE. 

Weep willows, weep ; bend low your 
boughs 

Around the shattered door ; 
The stranger laughs ; his heart is light, 

But mine, oh, nevermore ! 



The Frost-king sits on his icy throne 
And drearily doth he reign alone, 
With his auburn locks all tossed behind, 
Like streamers cold, by the solemn wind. 

No warbling bird sings him a note 
In cadence sweet from its mellow throat ; 
And the scented flowers scatter their leaves 
When they kiss the air that monarch 
breathes. 

Behold that king in his surtout brown, 
Which around him hangs, like curtains, 

down; 
His outstretched arm swings the sceptre 

high 
That cleaves the clouds in the autumn sky. 

He looks below and his fated glance 
Hoods the green land in a yellow trance ; 
And he wields his sceptre through the earth 
Till silence broods o'er the summer's mirth. 



112 THE FROST KING. 

He blows from his nostrils with'ring breath ; 
The breeze goes heralding woe and death : 
The meadows mourn as the winds sweep by 
Where the tall dead grass bosoms the sigh; 

And the old shorn oaks, all sad and bare, 
Lift up their arms in the solemn air, 
As if beseeching alms in prayer. 
Upon the clouds do his banners hang, 
"Where their golden hues in splendor shine ; 

And through the ether the vapors roll, 

As a ghost armada on patrol. 

In early morn, at the break of day, 

The Frost-king's beard on the meads is gray. 

His head reclines in the woodlands deep 
Where the leaves lie drifted in a heap ; 
His sober face in the solemn noon 
Mirrors the glow of the forests' gloom ; 

And his evening psalms fall on the ear, 
As smothered songs from a heart of fear. 
Look on that king — oh, my brothers, look ! 
Eead the dread manuscript of his book ; 
With trembling read, or with laughing 

breath — 
Ye who may laugh ; for it speaketh death. 



Yonder on- the hill side 

Sloping to the vale, 
The decaying school house 

Tells a mournful tale. 

Green the grass is growing 
Round the faded door; 

Young, nimble, playful feet, 
Tramp there nevermore. 

The wild vines climb the jamb; 

Rank weeds hide the sill ; 
No smiling children laugh; — 

All around is still. 

With moss the roof is set 

Partly in decay ; 
The chimney topples down 

Piecemeal every day. 

The old persimmon trees, 
Underneath whose shade, 

At noon we ate our pie 
And loud laughter made, 



114 THE OLD SCHOOL HOUSE. 

Begin to droop with age. 
Breathing solemn sound, 

Casting lonely shadows, 
On the lonely ground. 

The w 7 orm fence is removed, 
Once from where it stood, 

Zigzagging down the hill 
Half way mid a wood. 

But there the meadows are 
Still the types of truth, 

Spreading their breasts of green 
In eternal youth. 

Dear meadows, broad and fair, 
Limpid, mellow stream, 

Old school house, in decay, 
Like a faded dream, 

I look on you and mourn 
Till the tears run fast, 

Blinding my eyes that I 
Cannot see the past. 



f a Stotorag Itaita, 

The gay lark is winging 

Its way in the skies ; 
The blue bird is singing : 
Oh, maiden arise ! 
Arise and behold 
The morning of gold ! 



The wren and the sparrow 

In sweet melody, 
The boy at the harrow 
Are all calling thee : 
Arise and behold 
The morning of gold ! 



Up on the willow tree 

Sings the jet black bird, 
And on the lombardy 
His music is heard : 
Arise and behold 
The morning of gold ! 



116 TO A SLUMBERING MAIDEN. 

The robin and pewee, 

Perched by thy casement, 
Sing, loudly calling thee, 
"With sheer amazement : 
Arise and behold 
The morning of gold ! 



Sweet songs are falling 

Around without number ; 
All things are calling 

Thee up from thy slumber : 
Arise and behold 
The morning of gold ! 



Open thy beamy 

Bright eyes to the day ; 
Shake all thy dreamy 
Indulgence away : 

For the morning, oh. maiden, 
Is a beautiful aidenn ! 



%\t $hto §rifyje. 

O'er a quiet stream whose low notes swell 
Through the quiet groves of Greenwood 

Dell, 
An old tree bends its clustered bowers, 
Whose trunk is grown with moss and flowers. 

At foot of the tree how many a day 

The little birds came with the squirrels to 

play, 

While the waves on the pebbles, like the 

sound of a bell, 
Made musical notes through Greenwood 

Dell. 

, At the foot of the tree in gentle spring, 
The flowers peep up when the blue birds sing, 
Unfolding their leaves with an odorous 

smell, 
On the banks of the stream in Greenwood 

Dell. 

The violets open their pale blue eyes, 
By its branches sheltered from the stormy 
skies, 
11 



118 THE NEW BRIDGE, 

And their eloquent blushes seem to swell 
The praise of the tree in Greenwood Dell. 

And the waving grass shoots up in the air 
Beneath the tree that is growing there, 
Hiding the flowers we love so well 
On the shady banks of Greenwood Dell. 

And under its branches the fishes swim 
In the placid waves 'neath the shadows dim; 
For the rays of the sun can scarcely gleam 
Through the leaves of the boughs on the 
hallowed stream. 

The gentle breeze of the rosy day 

Sweeps through its boughs in the month of 

May, 
And a pleasant shade it spreads at noon 
When the air is hot in the month of June. 

The old old tree that I love so well 

That bends o'er the stream in Greenwood 

Dell, 
Has its green boughs lopped by the axe 

away ; 
And the boys have made it a bridge to-day. 



THE NEW BRIDGE. 119 

K"ow the tree that we used so much to ad- 
mire 

With a poet's heart and his soul of fire. 

Bends over the stream with its boughs all 
gone ; 

And its mossy trunk we walk upon. 

The timid maid, with her foot of snow, 
Over the stream walks, trembling slow, 
On the trunk of the tree she loved so well, 
To gather flowers in Greenwood Dell. 

But the lad takes the hand of her he loves 
As they walk o'er the bridge to seek the 

groves, 
Conducting her safe to the other side 
"Where of all the flowers she is the pride. 

But the old old tree bends a tree no more, 
A bridge it reaches from shore to shore ; 
Yet a tree I shall bless it, loved so well, 
When its branches were green in Green- 
wood Dell. 



My heart is in tlie forest now, 
In the wild wood deep and old, 

When autumn paints the swinging bough 
"With colors bright as gold. 

My heart is in the old, old wood, 

When sadly falls the leaf; 
For in the solemn solitude, 

I strengthen my belief. 

God speaks within the forest bowers ; 

And oh ! how sweet to hear 
His accents 'mid the withered flowers, 

Fall through the dying year. 

My heart is in the forest old 

When ev'ry blade is dead, 
And every leaf is lying cold 

Upon its icy bed. 

My heart is in the forest old 

Beneath November's sky 
When wild winds whistle up the wold 

And all the living die. 



NOTES 



Page 67. 
Hardscrabble is the name of a hill south of Downing- 
town. 

Page 71. 
The Nymphs of Brandy-wine is a little story, in verse, 
of my friend John J. Pinkerton, who accompanied some 
ladies one summer afternoon to the Brandywine. 

Page 104. 
Shamokin is the name of a tribe of Indians who once 
had their homes on the banks of Brandywine. Mr. Norris 
Dowlin informed me, that some time ago a few bones 
were washed up, supposed to be part of the remains of 
that tribe. 



124 NOTES. 

PaCxE 117. 
The Xew Bridge is an old tree, bending across the 
Brandywine, opposite Jonathan Gause's Boarding School, 
about half a mile south of iMarshaltown. The boys one 
day, superintended by A. J. Watson, got their axes to 
work and made a complete bridge of it 



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